Dear Mister McCarter (a letter to my older self)

Mister McCarter,

I have nothing but respect for you. I think about you often and often I am at a loss for words. I have no clue where you are, what you are doing or who you are with. I can only hope and guess a few things:

I hope you haven’t lost your smile. I pray your laugh lines runs deep and your wrinkles continue to cease to exist. I pray you find genuine love. The love you grew up reading about, witnessed and receive on occasion. I pray you someday don’t have to wake up everyday and just give it to yourself but there is someone who is there excited to give it to you as well. 

Of all the things, you are capable and able of doings and achieving in this world. More than a hope and a guess is a slight prayer that you actually won’t end up alone. Real tears, that would be the saddest thing for the romantic to end up alone. After a lifetime of searching there has to be someone. There seems to be a lot of pressure and honestly you do go through phases of wanting to be alone but you know what those times are: a facade. 

You may just need to focus and buckle down on your assignments, your health, and your means to build a lil wealth for yourself. Through balance, trial and errors and years of introspection you realize you can do all of those things with the right person along with you. 

You will not have to sacrifice your freedom, time, dignity or art for love. You know that it is finding the person who goes, “I see you for you” and that’s it. I will show up for me and for them but love is a two way street and I am asking myself, “Who is showing up for me?” 

In the way that I want to be seen by them. You can be picky, a lil shallow and honestly don’t ever change that. The search for love doesn’t mean your standards get lower but you learn to look for the correct flags. 

Thankfully after years of dating, you learn to spot the red flags and avoid them. Yet, you learn something even greater. There are green flags, green like go. Like growth, like we can take our time and get to know each other. 

Green flags, what a helluva thought for you but you realize what providing grace to people allows you to see. Trauma informed love. I will love you and be more patient with you because I can understand and take into account what you have been through. Just show me that you want to be here, for me, for the love. 

So pragmatically, that is allowing someone the space and time to walk into love instead of only falling into it. You can fall but can you get back up after it? and what happens when you do?. Do you walk together, away from each other or what? Trust me, falling for each other, that is the healthy part. Let each other know they are the one but after the fall, you both will get back up and shake off the dust and then what? 

This is where you truly learn to walk. Step by step, stride by stride, you learn each other’s flags. You talk about the red flags while looking for the green ones. You celebrate the green ones and acknowledge, “this is what I want” You learn what truly feels good, the stuff that makes your heart warm and skip a beat, just like in the books. You will learn that it will happen and you will learn that it comes and goes in waves, so you learn to manage the heartbreaks and aches and realize those moments are when you should focus on yourself, art and community. 

The green flag will wave itself all over again and you will know were to go from there. Follow the bliss they said, but you have learned to follow the love. For you, love lets the poet, poet. The art, art. And the smile, smile. 

Boo goes bye-bye.

The wood floors creaked as I followed Mother down the hallway. The house wreaked of incense and mothballs. The white walls had faded into a mustard yellow from the cigarette smoke. The stale air was plagued with a mix of smoke and dust. Iron black crosses decorated the living room walls. All the windows were covered with aluminum foil casting streaks of light throughout the space. As Mother and I followed the Witch down the hallway, I kept my head low. Mother in the middle, the Witch led us through the living room to her den. The old lady took her place on the on only couch in the room, motioning for Mom and me to join her. The worn leather couch scratched my skin as I tried to squeezed close to Mother. Slowly and steadily the Witch’s wiry arms placed a worn wooden box on the wicker table. Carefully, she removed: a black feather, thick white paper, an apple, two jars and a knife. Delicately, Mother placed her arms around me and placed me onto her lap. Then Mom turned her attention to the Witch.

“Passion spells are the most dangerous to reverse. Are you sure you want to reverse the spell?” the Witch said. The Witch leaned forward, her face inches of Mothers’. The smell of cigarette smoked almost became overbearing. Her frail voice repeated the question.
“Are you sure you want to reverse the spell?”
“Yes,” Mother replied.

With a slight nod of approval, the old lady placed one jar back into the box and proceeded to pick up the apple and the knife. Expertly, she slices the apple horizontally and removed the core. Handing Mother the paper and the pen, she was informed to write out her husband’s full name and birthday. With a slow deep breath, Mother removed me from her lap, took a deep breath and proceeded to follow the instructions. Mother locked eyes with the Witch as she explained how the curse would affect Boo.

“Yes ma’am” Mother simply said.  

The witch doctor smiled and got back to work. Placing the bottom half of the apple in Mother’s hand, she placed the tiny jar of salt in the other hand. Her bony fingers took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it onto the bottom half of apple. Gracefully she removed the items from Mother’s hands and placed them back on the table. Joining the apple pieces back together, she placed the candle where the core once was, securing the apple slices together.

“Kiss the paper with the name on it and then light the candle. Then wait until the candle completely melts,” the Witch directed Mother.

At once, Mother took the paper, pursed her lips and gave it a kiss. Leaving a single red pair of lips underneath her cursive handwriting. Without any hesitation, Mother struck a match, lit the candle and then we all waited.

Letter to my 17 year-old-self

Sup Chazmen,

Life’s been rough since day one but at age 17, you start to see a silver lining. That’s not it though. You learn that the silver lining doesn’t exist. Well, at least not in your world. There is no escaping the darkness. Yet in those solemn times, you’ve always remained optimistic. Never lose that. That six figure silver lining doesn’t pan out. Yet, you do find your way out of Florida. It won’t be to an Ivy League school up North but niglet you do make it out of Hell.

You’ll learn to surprise yourself. By stepping out of your comfort zone and expressing yourself the way you see fit. You’ll find your voice to speak up about your troubles. You’ll learn to be vulnerable.

You’ll eventually learn to embrace your blackness.

You won’t always be called an Oreo.

You won’t always be the only black gay male in the room.

You won’t always feel alone.

My God, you’ll disappoint yourself over and over again. You’ll be disappointed in others. Cry & move on.

You’ll continue to live life backstage in Florida. But remember, a stage is a stage and you can shine from anywhere. Your moment will come.

Also, magic IS real, not like the Harry Potter stuff. You create magic every time you smile. Never stop smiling. It’ll continue to bring you justice in complicated situation. So, smile on!

There’s magic in your creativity. Trust yourself and the abilities you have earned. Use them wisely. To create art, community and self love.

Call Granny more.

Never stop dreaming. Those dreams becomes foundations for artwork. Pain is an emotion meant to be felt and expressed. You’ll learn to express your pain. You’ll learn to share it with the world. They’ll even understand. There is power in being vulnerable.

So keep smiling. Keep dreaming. And be patient.

Your time to take center stage will come.

-Big Chaz

Excerpt from Luther (my journal)

Dear Luther,

…I am an artist, photographer, organizer, socialite, writer, producer, entrepreneur, mentor and real impact in this city in a short amount of time. I have made mistakes, burned bridges, and realized what true accountability is. The elasticity of vices and virtues are inevitable but that is what makes me human. How I react to those hardships and misfortunes continue to set the course along elasticity to greatness. That journey between the two is full of accountability, inflection, and action. The internal and external struggles may seem endless but time isn’t real but your relationships and reputation are. You are on your own mental journey with guidance from external influences. Those influences impact your health, mind, and daily life. Again, they can influence your mental journey but your journeys between hardship and greatness are one you saddle up your own mental mind and travel that road alone. You can either gallop, trot, or spring in either direction…

Chazmen: The Oreo

“Is he from up north?” My grandmother’s neighbor asked.

Grandma chuckled. “No, he’s from Fort Myers.”

Ilene turned to me.  "You must be a college boy, then?"

I smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’m enrolled in school.”

“I could tell, ” the neighbor said softly.

"--may go into international finance," I added.

"Oh, my Lord!" she said.

Ilene was the mother of Miguel, a friend since childhood. He lived with his dad in Sabal Palm, the project development where I grew up. As a boy, I noticed adults were more patient with me than with my friends.

Teachers expressed their concern when I missed homework assignments or skipped school. Pastor Doug, the youth children's pastor at Cornerstone Ministries, often would stop by my house when I missed church on Sundays or Wednesdays. Their efforts drove my efforts to perform and do well.

Miguel never got the same attention. Or my Cousin Sylvester, we used to pick mangoes together as kids.

"...Chazmen McCarter, 10, and Sylvester Gibbs, 10, ...sell the mangoes at a stand on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., run by Kids' deLight, a youth group of Cornerstone Ministries. Five kids belonging to the youth ministry were selling 5 to 10 mangoes for a dollar. The money will be used to set up a fund to help people who cannot afford to purchase their own air conditioners or pay their summer electric bills." Mark Humes reported in the News Press.

Pastor Doug cut out and framed the photo from the newspaper. Each Sunday, Sylvester and I would admire the photo as it hung in the church hallway.

In school, my black classmates taunted me for my high-pitched voice. The way I dressed and even the music I listened to was uncool black teens. They let me know I didn’t fit in. I didn’t use street slang. They played football. I danced ballet. I listened to Good Charlotte. They rapped along to Lil Wayne. They rocked Jordans and sagged their pants. I sported button downs and khaki linen shorts. My black friends said I was a "white-acting" black. I was the "house nigga."

And my white friends:
“You speak so well for a black guy!”
“Are you adopted?”
“You are really attractive for a black guy.”
My seventh-grade girlfriend: "You're black, but you're not like scary black.

My white classmates assured me I was almost white. A few seemed to think themselves more black than me because they listened to rap music or said nigga.

When Ms. Moorehead picked me to sing in Soundwave, the high school showchoir, she remarked that my voice was not my best trait: “I like the way you naturally sway to the rhythm of the music,” she said.

When the senior class at Fort Myers High school needed someone to portray Kanye West in the annual Greenie Growl, they had one person in mind: I was the token black guy.

I was the token black guy.

Some friends with whom I used to play “Smear the Queer” with now sell dope on the same block where we used to score touchdowns. They’re proud of me. I’m the black boy who made it out of the hood. My boss back in Fort Myers hired me as the charming black boy who’s almost white. I always smiled, and said, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“No, ma’am.” She liked that.

She was a Southern lady who also joked about how I was so cute she could lynch me. I was Chazmen the Oreo:  brown, almost black, but white on the inside. At age nineteen, I admitted to myself I was gay.  That didn't change my life, all that much.  I was now Chazmen the friendly-black-gay-guy Oreo.

Here in DC, life has changed for me. What do I see in the mirror as I brush my hair?   A black man who knows how to "white act"?  A gay man?  A Christian?  An American?  My mother's elder son?  An escapee from Fort Myers?  A writer?  A rising star?

My best friend, Christian, works with inner-city kids. “I am,” the tattoo reads upon his wrists. That's his mantra, and his answer when students ask about his sexuality or identity: I am.

“Be the change!” said Obama. “Change you can believe in.” 2008 was a good year. A black man as president would ring in the Age of Aquarius, a post-racial society.

It doesn’t take Trayvon Martin or Michael Brown or Alton Sterling or Eric Garner or the recent election to see how well that turned out.

Two big screen TVs. On one, Jill Stein and her fundraiser for the Wisconsin recount. On the other, the Gators score a touchdown. No volume. Perched at Nellies’s, I order a Hefeweizen and plunk down a $10 bill. “Want change?” asked the bartender"

“Yes,” I said.  

original writing day | December 14th, 2016

hello, goodbye.

The morning sunlight crept through the window.  After another restless night, I was grateful for the dawn. Careful not to make noise, I tiptoed into the kitchen. Broken glass littered the floor. Every cabinet and drawer stood open. Broken cups and ceramic plates covered the countertops. Careful not to step on the fragments, I opened the fridge, grabbed the half-full jug of milk, and gulped it down.  I could hear Mother in the living room. Tossing the milk-jug into the trash, I went to the living room to find her.

Sweaty and shaky, Mother lay in a tight ball in the corner of the couch. I’ll Be Missing You by Puff Daddy played lowly from the TV.  As Mother looked at me, tears streamed down her face. She pulled me into her embrace.  I could her feel her cold damp skin against mine. Her nightgown was soaked.  I remember gasping for breath as she smothered me with her love.

Mother picked me up and carried me to her room. Upon the bed was a brand-new black suit, and shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them. As I doffed my PJs, Mother straightened her hair, fixed her makeup and put on a beautiful black dress.  I put on my suit, then clicked my heels together, to get her attention.  Humming gospel hymns, she tied my shoelaces and helped me with my clip-on tie.

As we walked down the street to Grandmother’s house, cars and limos lined the road. My extended family was gathered there, dressed like Mother and me in their Sunday best:  aunts, uncles, cousins, even my older brother, and sister.  Adults kissed my cheek and gave me hugs that lasted too long. Family members I didn’t know came up and pinched my cheek or just stared at me. My uncles nodded. My Mother held my hand and remained silent.

HONK!! HONK!!  A car horn trumpeted us to attention. Lost in the sudden shuffle, unable to find my Mother, I grabbed my Uncle’s hand.  Outside, I followed him to the front of the car-parade…to a limousine! Long as a school bus. We settled into the leather seats. My uncle and brother in the rear seat. We led the procession. The caravan followed.

The sun grew hotter. As we waited outside the church, my suit became more uncomfortable. I felt suffocated, light-headed. Finally, the church doors creaked open, the organ started.  The choir sang softly.  I marched down the aisle following Mother.

Up front was a long blue coffin (open), adorned with roses and flowers. The man in the casket was not smiling. Not frowning. Not doing anything. He looked to be at peace with the chaos surrounding him. Pulling her hair out of her face, Mother leaned over slowly and kissed the man's forehead. Curious, I reached inside the casket. I took hold of the man's hand and squeezed it. The coldness sent chills down my spine.

The muffled cries in the room turned now into loud wails. Mother shook and wept as we seated ourselves in a pew. Uncles consoled crying aunts. Cousins comforted my somber grandmother. I just sat there, unsure what to do. As the preacher took the stage, the congregation composed themselves. Throughout the sermon, I could hear sniffles and moans.  Soon bored, I busied myself by making funny faces into my shiny shoes.  My cousin beside me said his shoes were shinier.  I argued they weren't. The service ended, we filed back to the limo.  I crossed my fingers for a return to grandmother’s house. My wish was not granted.

High in the sky, the sun gleamed down. The mourners gathered closely in the shade of the massive oak tree. The casket, suspended over a deep hole in the ground, was now closed. No roses or flowers. As the pallbearers stood beside the coffin, the preacher went into a final prayer. The soft cries crescendoed into wails.  A red rose found its way into my hand. The casket was lowered into the hole.  One by one, family and friends made their way to the edge of the grave and tossed their rose onto the casket. Standing at the edge of the grave, I admired that great shiny box at the bottom. Rose in hand, I stretched my arm out over the grave and released the rose while saying goodbye to the man inside.

On a new mission

When I first moved to DC eight years ago, I moved here without any knowledge that I was an artist. I was honestly just a young 25 year-old-person trying to make it in the big city. Hell, forget the big city I was trying to make it through life. I had no clue the artist lying underneath the years of business school that was festering and yearning for an identity. I had no clue.

The artist has more than arrived. They are on a new path than the one before. The path that will illuminate how the world sees black men.

Before the pandemic my mission was to provide a platform to marginalize artists, I did that. I still do that but there is now a mission amongst us. As the world changes, it is my duty as an artist to reflect those times and what they mean to me and the people who look like me.

I want the world to see black men in a new point of view. One they have not seen before, one that is more that just soft. more than sexy. more than just a safe haven, or a vice.

I want the world to understand the divineness that we are. I want other black men to see me and see how far we can go. We are the artists, the shakers, the movers and we can do it all in grace, style, love and ease. We can do it without the world making us hard but we each blow we grow wiser and softer.